


It Ain’t Easy Being Pretty

by Spot_On60



Category: The A-Team (TV), The A-Team - All Media Types
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-06-11 06:11:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15309171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spot_On60/pseuds/Spot_On60
Summary: Challenge: Five times Face got upset about being called "Pretty Boy" and the one time he didn't mind one bit.





	1. Chapter 1

“Teacher’s pet ... teacher’s pet.”

Young Alvin Brenner was walking what had become a familiar gauntlet after leaving his classroom. Only ten-years-old, the children of Sister Theresa’s fifth grade class had already broken into clearly identifiable factions. Unfortunately, Al was in the “kick me” lot.

“All the teachers’ favorite pretty boy.”

It had begun in earnest back in the third grade under the kindness of Sister Ann. Al Brenner, though never unpopular before, had become a target and sadly it was Sister Ann who had painted that bullseye on his back. Surprisingly blind to the social upheaval playing out around her amongst the undersized and untrained humans, the nun was making a child who had never truly bothered anyone, kept to himself and was relatively quiet, the object of scorn. She couldn’t help herself. She looked at the beautiful child as one would a cute puppy.

Even here in the world of parentless children there is a definite pecking order. One imagines a musketeer commraderie amongst these young people; unfortunately, that’s not exactly true. It seems human nature is such that each person must be slotted into the correct hole in their little part of the universe. While those who had lost their parents to tragic accidents and illness, at least among themselves, deserved sympathy, extra care and kindness; those who had been abandoned were not only thought of by themselves as defective or undeserving, other children could also take that view. There is nothing unusual in those who build themselves up by tearing others down.

Several methods had been devised as a way of coping with the less than charitable attitude. One survival mechanism was to never back down, often pointing out there were many orphans who had other family that visited, but were never taken home. In theory, they too were in some way defective and undeserving. Another method employed was to keep one’s head down, drawing as little singular attention as possible. Folding in on himself had become Al’s MO. With a subconscious motto of don’t stand out, he regularly presented himself as shy.

Unfortunately for Al the self protection of shyness had, with the nun’s prodding, become the gap in the fragile boy’s armor. She of course felt by showing a special interest in this student she was helping him by having an adult he could turn to. Her theory went, all he needed was a little extra kindness to help him grow into a confident young man one day.

What she hadn’t counted on, nor acknowledged, was the damage she was doing. The more the sister pushed, the farther away the kid drifted, which encouraged even more doting by his teacher and so on. A circle that quickly veered into a spiral.

The taunts had become part of daily life. The teacher’s pet moniker had been bestowed back under Sister Ann’s nose. Now in the fifth grade the abuse was amping up. Al was often cornered in the boys’ lavatory feeling relief when all he was exposed to were newly learned swear words and a pelting of water soaked wads of toilet paper.

He couldn’t have told you why, probably couldn’t even tell you today, but hearing the barbs as he walked out of the classroom that particular day caused something to dislodge. His usual reaction of continuing on his way without feeding the aggression pointed in his direction just wasn’t cutting it. When Jimmy Meirs snickered, “Kept after class again, huh? Did your favorite teacher want to...” That was all Jimmy could finish before young Alvin pounded his tormentor into the waxed linoleum floor.

Jimmy was curled in a ball with Al straddled above him throwing punch after punch. He didn’t say a word. In the split second it took from dropping his books to being all over Jimmy he figured he didn’t need to tell the little POS why he was about to get the crap beat out of him. Silently he wailed on the boy.

He wasn’t aware of being pulled away from the bawling bundle of kid on the floor. Without a memory of getting there he was on his feet, his upper arms held from behind, sound was again beginning to register. There was a melee surrounding himself, Jimmy and whoever was holding him back. There were the remnants of the low roar. A couple of Jimmy’s cohorts were still yelling at him, tears streaking their faces. Yet no one knelt down by Jimmy who was now sitting up, wiping his own tears away.

Al was spun around and escorted down the hall. He knew exactly where he was headed, Mother Superior’s office. Dragged into the anteroom he was pointed in the direction of four molded plastic chairs.

“Sit,” Sister Mary Catherine ordered. When he was seated she moved to the Mother Superior’s door, tapping lightly with a knuckle. When summoned she stepped in.

Not more than three minutes later Sister Theresa appeared with school books, some of which he could identify as his own, held to her chest with one hand and the wrist of a sniveling Jimmy Meirs firmly in the other.

“Sit,” she ordered pointing Jimmy to the chairs on the opposite wall from Al. She too tapped on the office door and was permitted entry. The door wasn’t closed fully behind her allowing the voices of the three women to filter through the room.

Al stared at the floor in front of his feet, lips pursed and tight. Jimmy’s attention was fully on Al, glowering. “Now you’re gonna get it,” he said quietly across the expanse of the room. When he received no response he said it again a little louder this time adding the tag line, “Teacher’s pet.”

“Shut up, Jimmy.” Al’s eyes never looked up.

“Guess you’re not gonna be the favorite anymore, are you asshole?”

Neither one had registered the door open until Jimmy had been grabbed by his arm and yanked into the office. Sister Theresa stepped out prior to the door being closed behind her. The low murmurs of the nuns could be heard, but the words not understood.

Jimmy? Not so much. “Noooo!” Came through crystal clear as did, “He started it!” His next expression was muddled by what sounded like tears.

Al continued to stare downward trying his best to blank everything out of his mind. His attempt at reverie was brought to an abrupt end when Sister Theresa crouched in front of him. Sitting back on her heels, hands in lap she looked over the boy’s face. “Who started this, Al?”

“If you mean who threw the first punch, it was me.”

“Why?”

Al shrugged a shoulder and said, “Guess I finally got tired of him making fun of me.”

“He’s been making fun of you?”

“All the time.”

“This isn’t the way we solve problems. You know that.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Well, I suppose it could be worse. He could have landed a few punches of his own. We wouldn’t want that, now would we? You’re too pretty of a boy to get your face all messed up.”

Al didn’t know how to tell her that’s the kind of thing that started the fight in the first place.

 

 

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**From H/F group pomptfest**

**Jullian Gray suggested:** Five times Face got upset about being called "Pretty Boy" and the one time he didn't mind one bit.


	2. Chapter 2

“Come on, Al. Know you want to,” Ken whispered.

“Leave me alone, Ken.” Al didn’t lift his head from reading his textbook.

“I think you want to give it a try,” Ken pushed. Anyone walking by the library table would see Ken had a book open, but on close inspection would also see the nagging kid had it upside down.

Al tried to ignore him. He kept his eyes firmly to his algebra book, pencil in hand poised over a spiral notebook. When he heard the telltale inhale of air he knew the kid across from him was about to start talking again. “Go away, Ken.”

The clap of Ken’s book snapping shut caused Al to jump. Looking around, he saw most everyone in the school’s library were now paying attention to the two teenagers. Ken was standing. Stuffing his book into his pack he didn’t move his eyes from Al. Displaying his anger by whipping his pack over a shoulder he all but stomped off.

Al only spared a glance to be sure he was truly gone. Shaking his head he returned to the math problem he had been stuck on. Without the distraction the answer all but raised off the page.

He was an above average student, best suited to mathematics and the sciences. Anything that took a logical view to master caught and held his interest. The more an answer to a problem required being two or even three steps ahead the more his curiosity was peaked and the more determined he was to succeed. His use of this lesson turned esoteric, came in handy in more than just his studies.

It was connected to how he managed to barter or con his way into getting most anything he wanted. What could he say? He had talent. Not to mention Sister Dorothy’s unwitting contribution to the secondary education he was receiving in the Catholic run orphanage and academy.

Sister Dorothy was the high school French teacher and Al was her star student. And it was not only Sister Dorothy, but also Sister Ellen the science teacher and Mrs. Metz who headed up all the math classes. One would think his status as a favorite might not bode well, but that wasn’t the case. It had been an issue at one time, but after he made mincemeat of Jimmy Meirs back in the fifth grade, he had a reputation as someone not to be messed with.

While math and science classes exercised Al’s brain, French taught him how to read people. Sister Dorothy, aside from being fluent in French was a master in communications. Amidst the conjugation of verbs and the never ending memorization of masculine and feminine the nun discussed clues one could read in a speaker’s body language. Her intent was to assist a non-native speaker to follow along even if they didn’t understand all the words. Al took that idea and ran with it.

He ordered several books purporting to teach him the mysteries of human body language. He hadn’t really thought there would be much to it, not much useful information. However, when he went out into his world, small as it was, he found his reading to be very useful. He learned to read when people were anxious, distressed, happy, sad, open, closed. He then put that knowledge into action, practicing pressing people, seeing how far they could be pushed. Where was the line he could get close to without crossing over. He learned when to keep pushing or when to back away just enough to suit his needs.

He had become a one man underground. A purveyor of comic books; M&Ms nail polish; this year’s handbag, hard to find 45 records, and other must haves of teenage boys and girls. He made “outside” connections who could provide the most mundane of childish things to more, let’s say, advanced items.

An oxymoron of sorts, Al was a well known secret. Plenty of the kids knew where to go for wish fulfillment, often paying in stock of the wants of others. But there were also those who didn’t have a clue as to Al’s alter ego, Face. Oh they knew the nickname, but didn’t know what lay beneath it.

Face was given the moniker for his good looks. Couldn’t be denied he’d grow into a handsome man. The nickname “Face” fit for all the right reasons, but also the wrong ones. He was spending more and more time behind the Face mask, taking on a charming scoundrel charm. Albeit suave charm was new territory and still needed a lot more practice. He’d learnt to work it within the confines of his home, his community, where he felt safe. Taking it outside maybe not so much.

It was a little easier inside the gates of the school, after all, if found out they wouldn’t expel him. Right? What would they do? Send him to juvie? Highly unlikely. However working it outside felt suspiciously like a walk across a wire without a net. He knew being caught by law enforcement would of course be ruinous.

Then there was the possibility of crossing someone not in law enforcement. Someone who didn’t need to play by any rules. Worryingly, that type of situation never crossed the kid’s mind. His not yet fully developed, teenage brain didn’t always think things through. For example, what’s a little pot, he thought. What he didn’t consider was in order to procure that particular commodity he was in business with drug dealers; not a section of the population known to forgive mistakes or cut much slack. He was lucky he never crossed a line knowingly or inadvertently.

He wasn’t a bad kid. He was only learning to work with his given talents to acquire some of the extras in life which could be few and far between in a Catholic run orphanage. He actually had high ideals and a heart of gold. Inspired by JFK, he had every intention of joining the Peace Corps after college. He may have had a sparse childhood, but he knew it wasn’t as difficult as those in underdeveloped countries.

A rich fantasy life convinced him any education in conning, slight of hand, or old fashion bartering would come in use when he was shipped off to Tanganyika or Ghana or wherever the hell they sent him. But for now he worked on his skills envisioning himself a Frank Abagnale of sorts when in reality he was still closer to a young Walter Mitty. Putting on the Face mask allowed him to recreate himself. The mask gave him courage, took away the stage fright which could be so prevalent in teenage boys. It helped him focus, helped him gather far flung thoughts together.

Of course all these goings on beneath the mask were well hidden by the visage itself. Soft blonde locks, teal blue eyes and a mouth that seldom faltered from a pleasant half-smile. For anyone not paying attention, and that would be pretty much everyone, the nickname “Face” described the kid’s good looks. Bestowed on him early in the school year it took no time for it to be as natural to use as Al.

It all started with a conversation amongst Stephanie Barth, Karen Wilson, and Wendy Schmitt. While changing for gym class the three huddled as always to discuss one of their top five topics, the boys of St. Mary’s.

A sociologist would find textbook fodder in the early mating rituals of teenagers by listening in. While Karen and Wendy extolled the attributes of star football players Ben Hurley and Josh Taylor, Stephanie kept mum. She was taken by someone else for something other than the gladiator appeal of the other boys.

“What’s with you, Steph? You really don’t like Ben or Josh?” Wendy asked over her knee as she tied her gym shoe.

Karen closed the door to her locker spinning the combination dial. “She’s got her sights on someone else.”

“Oooo....Do tell.” Wendy was on her feet.

“Oh it’s nothing,” Stephanie deflected inexpertly.

“That’s not what you said last night,” Karen teased.

“Kareeennn,” Steph whined.

“What?” she asked innocently.

Wendy was looking between them. “No fair! What are you two talking about?”

“It’s not what, it’s who. Huh Steph?”

Stephanie rolled her eyes at Karen, but said nothing.

“One of you tell me,” Wendy had her hands on her hips. She turned to Stephanie, “Come on. Spill it. Who are you talking about?”

“Fine! Al Brenner,” Stephanie huffed.

“You like him?”

“It’s not that I ‘like’ him, but he’s really cute.”

“Ya think?”

“Well yeah. Don’t you?” Stephanie was incredulous.

“Of course I do. Guess I just haven’t given it much thought,” Wendy said with a shrug.

“That’s cuz you’re too busy being dazzled by the quarterback. I mean put them side by side. Al is so much better looking. That face.”

“Not to mention rumor has it he’s a bit of a bad boy.”

“Maybe.” Steph was closing her locker and grabbing her lacrosse stick from the center bench.

“We can just call him Face from now on,” Karen teased.

“Fine by me. He may not like it,” she was trying to play it cool.

Turned out “Face” kinda loved it. Thought it was a lot better than what he could have ended up with considering his extracurricular activities. He had heard it was coined by Stephanie Barth, that pretty redhead rather than Karen.

Passing her in the hall between classes on a whim he “accidentally” caught her shoulder with his own sending the notebook she carried to the floor. He dove for it to hand back to her. “Sorry Stephanie. My fault.”

Those blue eyes looking down on her threatened to draw babbling forth, but she contained herself, “That’s alright.” Taking the notebook she added, “Thank you, Al.”

“Don’t you mean Face?”

There it was. The blush rising up her cheeks. Face always got a little thrill when he could bring on that effect. He gave her a smile before stepping around to be on his way.

“Oh. My. God.”

“You okay, Steph?” Karen was grinning from ear to ear.

“I think my knees are sweating,” was all she could get out.

“Ya know? You nailed it. He really is good looking, isn’t he?” Karen noted.

Face had finished his last class of the day. He had managed to set up a schedule that allowed him to be done early on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays despite his heavy course load weighted with AP classes. A quick stop up in his shared room to drop off books and a change of clothes. Off with his uniform of button down oxford shirt, khaki pants, navy jacket and regulation school striped tie. On with jeans, tee shirt, and hooded sweatshirt emblazoned with STANFORD across the chest, the college he had no doubt he would be attending. Keds tennis shoes tied and he was skipping down the steps to sneak off grounds.

Taking a bus to a low rent residential district of L.A. he was knocking on the door of a little bungalow that had seen better days. The door opened, a hand went around the back of his neck, and he was yanked in, the screen door closing behind him. He received a quick peck on the lips before being escorted into the living room.

Denny swatted at his hand as Face tried to entangle theirs together. Without a word Denny moved ahead of him, leading the way into the room before taking a seat beside a man Face hadn’t seen before.

“Who the fuck is this?” the unkept man asked eyeing Face up and down.

“Yeah, just a friend. He’s cool,” Denny answered, his attention back to busying himself on the oversized coffee table. Distracted introductions were made, “Face, this is Such. Such, Face.” He had a regular production line set up. Such appeared to be breaking up the bricks, then filling baggies before handing over to Denny who would set them on the scale, adding or deleting to level the platforms, one holding brass weights the other a baggy of pot.

“He just stand around looking pretty?” Such was taking in the teen.

“Sit down Face,” Denny said dropping another bud in the bag, watching as the scale leveled.

“Yeah. In a minute. Gonna get myself a Coke. Want anything?”

“No, I’m good,” Denny answered zipping the baggy closed.

Face didn’t bother asking Such. Figured if he wanted something he would speak up.

Returning to the living room Face plopped into the loosely stuffed upholstered chair across from the two men. From previous occasions when he had walked in on Denny with suppliers he knew it was best just not to say anything. As he had done on previous visits he dropped his head back to rest it on the high back of the chair and closed his eyes. He conjured the Rolodex of current events in his life, stopping at one in particular.

Stephanie’s silky, light red hair came to mind. He imagined the liquid like feeling it would have as it split between his fingers while falling loose along her back. He pulled her in feeling the firm swell of teenage breasts just before their lips met.

His daydream skipped a bit, like a dinged 45 on a phonograph. Instead of Stephanie’s lips, his locked to Denny’s just before Denny stripped him down and rolled him over. There wasn’t foreplay involved and it always hurt. His pot dealer never took the time to prep him and didn’t want to wait while Face did it himself, so he became accustomed to relaxing as best he could as Denny pushed in hard, fast and painfully.

His mind wandered away from the unpleasantness. Like so many times he wondered what the fuss was about. Beside the discomfort of being mounted, it seemed to be over in no time with Denny pulled out. He would grab his clothes and head for the bathroom leaving Face alone and to his own devices to relieve his own swollen cock, well, at least when it was swollen. More and more often he found disappointment in the act and his flaccid cock could be tucked right back into his underwear without a quarrel.

While dressing he felt a cloak of shame drop over him, only to be intensified seeing Denny walk by the door on his way back downstairs. Never a word to Face as he went by, didn’t even glance through the doorway. It would be another five years before the Stonewall riots broke out in New York City. Certainly the touchstone of its day in the gay rights movement, there still was little acceptance of homosexuals or bisexuals. The thoughts and desires alone were shameful much less acting on them. There was no one to turn to, to compare experiences with. He only knew what he knew and with the familiar feeling of disappointment he would finish dressing then follow Denny downstairs.

Denny was twenty-six, a full decade older than Face. In Face’s adolescent eyes he was mature and worldly. He thought himself lucky to have an older lover. When they would meet again downstairs Denny would kiss him long and slow, the way he always did when he’d first arrived, at least when no one else was there. Kissed him the way he wanted while he was being... Well that just wasn’t them. Not who they are he would tell himself, but they would get there. Denny promised it. The taboo of their relationship was for the outside world he would tell Face. But for them it was exclusively true and natural and mutual. Denny would talk to Face about what he wanted to do to his young body, but when it came down to it, their sessions always came to an end before they ever got around to pleasing Face.

The pot he’d buy was always the best Denny had to offer and at the price of the less desirable bags full of sticks and dried, explosive seeds. He never bought vast amounts, just enough to cover a few regulars back at the school. Only a half dozen or so and each sworn to secrecy. Should Face catch wind of his name, either of them, being offered as a source, said person would be cut off. He didn’t need this bit of information out and about. He made true on his word as a heads up he was serious about finding his own customers, didn’t need or appreciate any help in that area.

“So what’s he do?” Such asked breaking the silence between the three seated in Denny’s dark living room.

“What does who do?” Denny returned, annoyance filtering through.

“Pretty boy here,” Such tipped his head in Face’s direction. “He a new fuck?”

“Hey! Leave him alone,” Denny actually looked up for that one. “He’s a friend.”

“Ya mean like that ‘friend’ that was here a couple of days ago? What was that, Tuesday?” Such queried.

“Knock it off, Such.” His eyes shot to Face who was staring at him.

“Just tryin’ to keep your boy toys straight,” Such laughed.

Denny said nothing as he watched Face’s eyes go flat and hard. Denny was up in a flash after him as Face made a fast retreat to the door. In the hall Denny grasped a wrist. Face closed his eyes at the touch.

“Hey. He’s an asshole. You don’t have to go.” He had Face turned around, his head tilted, “Come on, Face. He’ll be gone soon.” Denny reached up to comb his fingers through those golden strands. “I’ll get rid of him. Then you and me ... we can get busy with that cock of yours.”

Face’s attention went past Denny’s shoulder. From right behind him Denny heard, “Let’s get to it. I ain’t got all day. You can play with pretty boy here when we’re done. Unless that other kid’s coming by today. The one from the other day.”

Face hurried along the front walk, tears stinging his eyes. He could here Denny calling him, but knew he wouldn’t be followed to the bus stop. As he paced in front of the shelter marking the stop he tried to remember if he ever gave Denny a phone number or way to contact him. He didn’t think so, but couldn’t be sure. He’d have to hope the drug dealer would never try to contact him; although, if he was honest with himself there wasn’t much chance of that happening anyway.

On the ride across town he planned on how he would tell Ken he was sorry. He’d say when they were in the library he was really stressed out about a test that was coming up. He’d tell him, if Ken still had it, he would like to try smoking pot. From there he’d find out where Ken got the weed, who his contact was, make him his own. Or more than likely find the contact’s supplier. Always stay two or three steps ahead he reminded himself.

His mind drifted back to the house he’d just left for the last time. Wiping at the few tears threatening, he stared determinedly out the bus window. Fuck Denny. Son of a bitch sounded like he really cared at the end there, didn’t he? Too late. Fuck Denny. Fuck Such. This pretty boy’ll wipe the floor with either one if he ever sees them again.


	3. Chapter 3

Settling into his new life as a college student was working well for Face. Having completed his AP courses without effort, his grades qualified him for early placement in Stanford on full scholarship just a few months before his seventeenth birthday. Living in a dorm with a roommate was nothing new, he’d bunked with others most of his life. Sporting a new name to go with the new chapter in his life, Templeton Peck had taken a job within his first week in The Stanford Bookstore as a stocker and made a non credible wage. A dime over minimum to unload deliveries, label the stockroom, and stock store shelves and displays.

Of course Face was noticed. As always initially for his good looks, secondarily for his inventive brain. The store employed a designer whose mission it was to make sense of the vast amounts of merchandise and display it in a manner that was not only space efficient but also eye catching. After an evening of filling displays that couldn’t hold all the wares intended, Face’s improvisational talents were noticed by the store designer, Brian.

“Who set up that French display?” Brian asked the store manager.

“Don’t know exactly. One of the night staff I assume.” Carol didn’t lift her head from the stack of invoices she was double checking totals on before she passed them to the college’s Accounts Receivable office. “Is there a problem?”

“No, actually. It’s a nicely thought out display. I’m impressed.”

Carol was about a day behind in her self determined schedule. She needed the designer to either get to the point or get out of her office. Holding her fingers poised over the keypad of her tape calculator she looked up to give Brian a pointed look.

He got the message. “If it’s possible I’d like to know who it is. Take them on for this year’s design team.”

“There aren’t any night employees available for day hours.”

“I’d still like to meet them. It could come in handy to have someone capable take care of leftover and pickup jobs in the evening.”

“Okay. I’ll talk to ...” She spun on her office chair to look at the schedule on the bulletin board beside her desk, “... Looks like Andrea was night manager last night.”

“Thank you. I’d appreciate it.”

Two nights later Brian remained to greet the young man who would become his most recent addition to the design team. Brian couldn’t help but be taken aback by the green tinged blue of the freshman’s eyes and his easy demeanor. They’d had a productive talk. He preferred to have someone who worked days, but had no reservations about his choice to fill one of this year’s spots. He was looking forward to taking on what he immediately understood would be a challenge.

None of his accidental (on purpose) brushes along various parts of the young man’s body had set off alarms. There had been no shrinking or brief looks toward an exit door. Brian’s gaydar was sounding, yet the kid didn’t seem to respond to any of his hints or tests. He was just on this side of crossing over to overt queries, but had triggered no response.

It was obvious to Brian the kid wasn’t a stranger to the questing attention being lavished on him. Face, and what the hell was that? It didn’t take a rocket surgeon to figure out where that name had come from. Face seemed accustomed to and unfazed by Brian’s physical contact. What was different was Face responded neither one way or the other. Yes this would be interesting.

When Face had said he didn’t have a design background Brian wasted no time getting all over that. The French display, frankly, was right up there with what Brian would have conjured. The textbook lying open beside a notebook with hand written conjugated verbs, a pencil with “Stanford University” emblazoned on its length, and a pair of readers from the eyeglass display discarded on top was the perfect center to stack assorted French textbooks in a natural waterfall effect. Visually all seemed to lead back to the main objects with a breakaway to a stack of workbooks from a variety of French courses. The tipped over Stanford coffee mug completed the tableau. It was a highly focused and fully realized presentation.

Brian broke down for Face the elements at play and their clever use to not only highlight materials available for the French classes offered at the school, but also the add-on merchandise. What Brian wanted from the freshman was for him to develop more creations in other fields: math, economics, law. But what he wanted emphasized were those add-ons, those little bits and pieces that weren’t much for one person, but when added up over the course of a day had the power to reduce the dollars budgeted by the school to the store, thus increasing the year end bonuses paid out to the management staff, himself included.

Face was honest in his description of the birth of the display, “I happen to know French. I’m fluent in it so it just kinda came ... I don’t know ...”

“It came forth organically?” Brian offered.

“Yeah. That’s a good way of putting it,” Face agreed. “So I don’t think I can do the same thing with another topic.”

“You’re a student, right?”

“Yeah?” Face didn’t know where this was leading.

“So go study. Get the gist of other subjects. Put a little study time into, oh, I don’t know. Biology?” He raised his eyebrows in question, looking for agreement.

“Uh, yeah. I can do that. Does it have to be biology?”

“Nope.” He dropped a hand to Face’s forearm giving it a gentle squeeze. “Just as long as it’s not another language. We need a variety. Other than that it can be anything that pretty little head comes up with.”

“Mmm....right.” Face shifted his arm out of reach. This suddenly was becoming uncomfortable.

“Let’s get out of here.” Brian tipped his head back and to the side, in the direction of the door.

“Uhhh. I can’t afford to do that. I need to get my hours in. And if I’m not working I need to be studying.”

“Tell ya what. We’ll go for a coffee and discuss ideas. You’ll still be working. I’ll sign your time card.”

He didn’t want to, but the kid was, well he was still a kid and didn’t have the finesse of the older man. He had a distinct pang that this would lead down a path he may not be equipped to back out of. Hell, it had already happened. He didn’t know how to tell this man, who obviously had other designs than just professional on the teenager, no.

It didn’t take long after that first encounter for Brian to corner Face in the bookstore stockroom. As the kid reached into a box of geometry workbooks a hand covered his own a moment before an entire warm body pressed into his length from behind. Face’s head and hand jerked as he startled.

In his ear he heard a whispered, “Let me help you with that, Face.”

Another hand landed on his shoulder, but he was able to slip away easily. “I’ve got it.”

Brian held a single workbook in his hand, “No. It appears I’ve got the book. But I do agree. You’ve got something alright.”

Face had a flash of Denny cloud his vision. Admittedly he missed the intimate contact with a man, but he didn’t trust this one. Besides, he should really keep that part of himself tamped down. Not to mention the term “old lech” came to mind when in close proximity to the man. Brian couldn’t have been more than thirty-five, but in 1960s America a goodly amount of youth believed the axiom of never trusting anyone over thirty. “I don’t know what that could be,” he tried to deflect. “May I please have the book?”

Brian brushed the soft skin of Face’s cheek, “No need to be coy, Face. It’s not like you’re some high school teenager.” He had Face backed to the shelves, one hand beside him to block his way, the other stroking along his cheek and neck. “What are you? Eighteen? Nineteen?”

Face’s voice was small, “Sixteen,” he all but whispered.

The stroking stopped. “What?”

“I...I’m sixteen.”

“If you’re sixteen what are you doing in college?”

“I graduated early with high AP scores. So...So it was okay for me to start college early.”

“You expect me to buy that? If you’re not interested just say so.”

“But I am. I don’t mean interested. I... I...” He fumbled his wallet out of his pocket. “Here. I’ll show you my driver’s license.”

“Put it away.” Brian had backed off. “You don’t tell anyone about this. You understand? Not anyone.”

“I understand.”

Brian stroked along his cheek one more time. “Pity. You are one very pretty boy aren’t you?”

Face hated that. Hated it from when Jimmy Meirs had first called him that. Hated it in the moment. His eyes flattened before Brian, who was taken a little off guard by the change. His arm was easily pushed away when Face broke for the door.

Talking loudly to the retreating back, “I mean it. Not one word about this.”

Face surprised himself by being able to resist an adolescent urge to throw his middle finger up in the air. It flashed through his mind that he needed this job. He had promised himself he wouldn’t revert back to scamming for notions or selling pot until his junior year. He needed this education. He also needed his student exemption to keep him out of that shit hole across the ocean. 

He was learning a valuable lesson. Smarting off didn’t produce the adrenaline he now felt coursing through his body. Being a smart ass was a release, a steam valve. A caustic reply may feel good in the moment, but it was no good in the long run. But without the release he was flooded with the hormone. He instinctively knew he had to get that under control. This was a reminder he was a bit out of place here. Everyone was older than himself. That meant they weren’t bratty teenagers who stomped about when faced with difficult situations. If in his junior year he were to start up a business similar to what he had going in high school as he planned, he knew he had to learn how to bring out the adrenaline when needed and, maybe more importantly, how to calm it.

His plan was to get a couple of lean years under his belt and start the business back up as a junior. He wisely was deferring it. Being one of the youngest students on campus he felt outsmarted by so many people around him and needed to establish himself before dipping a toe back in. He would study his courses, but also study people. He already received his first book about a confidence man, The Talented Mr. Ridley. It was a decade old at that point, but Face was still gobbling it up for the bombastic lead character, but also as a cautionary tale to not fall so far into a situation he wouldn’t be able to surface again.

He was expecting another book in the next few days. The Big Con was twenty years old, but from what he read it was more of a how to manual. Between the two he would build a foundation. He would be more confident for having them. Maybe then he wouldn’t be as out of sorts in situations like he just had with Brian.

Outside the stockroom door he looked around, sure people would see something different about him. But no one payed him any attention as he measured his steps around the stacks, making it clear to those who didn’t acknowledge him nothing had happened. He straightened his back and eased his shoulders. He put on the mask. Maybe, he thought, he was older than his years after all.

His roommate may as well have been a ghost for how infrequently their paths crossed. Face attended all his classes, setup a study schedule for himself, worked at the bookstore, wrote letters to Father Maghill, sometimes following up with a phone call. He still did some of the major displays for the core curriculums and occasionally a small table for a specialty, such as he had for watercolors. Instead of art in general he narrowed it down. Displaying a variety of soft brushes, watercolor paper pads, a desktop easel, a palette, and the paints themselves. Yet there would be no further in-depth discussions or compliments verging on fawning from the head of the design; although, that didn’t mean attention wasn’t still being paid.

Brian kept a reasonable distance, but Face often had the feeling he was being watched. When he’d look up it wasn’t unusual to see Brian across the sales floor, eyes moving away from their focus on him. It also wasn’t unusual for him to catch the back end of the designer slip around a corner. His second semester afforded him two regular afternoons per week available for work making the chances much higher his and Brian’s paths would cross. He kept his mouth shut and followed the directions written for him.

The year was unwinding and in only a few weeks summer break would be upon the college. He had a thought of hitchhiking to San Francisco. See for himself what was going on at the corner of Haight and Asbury Streets. Or, maybe go back to the orphanage. Do some of the repairs there was never enough cash left over to hire out for. But in the end he signed up for the summer session. The harder he worked, he figured the sooner he would graduate and be able to spend a year with the Peace Corps before begining to study medicine full on.

Late one afternoon a week into the fall session and the start of his sophomore year, Brian’s voice broke through his ruminations while he stocked shelves. “Face. This is Greg Harper. He’s going to be joining the design team. He’s also a student here. He’s actually majoring in Fine Arts and design. Greg, this is Face.”

Face couldn’t have been happier to meet the handsome dark haired, blue eyed student. Finally someone to take Brian’s attention off of him. His hand shot out enthusiastically accompanied by a sincere welcome.

”I was just telling him how clever you are and with no design training to speak of,” Brian informed Face.

”I’m really impressed,” added Greg. “You may want to consider going into design. You have a natural talent.”

”I don’t know about that,” Face replied modestly.

”Just want to go over something with our wunderkind here. I don’t think I mentioned Face is jailbait. Only seventeen, aren’t you?”

”Yeah.” Face was embarrassed, but managed not to let the remark set him back.

”Go ahead and wander around, Greg. I’ll catch up in a minute.”

”Nice meeting you, Face,” he pitched before mosying off.

“I think he’s going to do well,” Brian said watching the young man walk away. “Handsome. Don’t you think?” Brian looked back to Face. “Though not as handsome as you.” Leaning in he added conspiratorially, “He may not be as pretty as you, but he’ll keep me occupied until you turn eighteen.”

Face missed the feeling of firm muscle under his hands and the rasp of a stubled chin. He often long to be handled by a man, but Brian made his skin crawl. His only response was to return to his work without comment. He heard Brian stepping away behind him. Half an hour later he congratulated himself on not dwelling on Brian’s inelegant attempt at... At what exactly? Sexual harassment at work didn’t have a name in the 1960’s, nor did it have much in the way of consequence.

It was the following evening Face was on a ladder doing his best to line up the various texts for the myriad of Economics classes offered at the school. Most prevalent was Samuelson’s, being the cornerstone text for both Micro and Macro Economics. It was featured repeatedly in the display. He absently heard a female voice but paid no attention, at least until it became louder and more persistent.

“Excuse me. Can you tell me where I’d find the course text catalogue?”

Annoyed the young woman was apparently blind to the fact he was barely balanced on the top of the ladder reaching for the fishline hanging from the ceiling where, once captured, he would hang the signage for the display.

“I’m a little,” but the word ‘busy’ didn’t have a chance when he looked down to the beautiful young women peering up at him.

“Yes? A little...?”

“A little tired of standing on this ladder.”

“You do look like you’re risking life and limb.”

Face was climbing down to get a better look at this beauty. “Uhh, yeah, catalogue.” He found himself flattening the school tie he no longer wore now he was in college. “Right over this way.”

“That’s okay. Just point in the general direction. I’m sure I can find it.”

“Allow me to help. Sometimes students will walk off with it and I’ll either need to find it or get the main one from the store office.” He extended a hand outward. He immediately thought it was a bit cheesy, but she didn’t seem to mind.

The catalogue was exactly where it always was with a security chain attached to thwart anyone with a mind to move it from its dedicated spot on a podium alongside the cash registers.

“Right here.”

“How do people walk off with it if it’s chained down?” she asked with a smirk.

She’s no fool, he thought to himself. He liked that. Turning on a megawatt smile he didn’t miss a beat. “Well would you look at that. I’ve been pushing for them to get some form of security for it forever now. Looks like they finally took my advice.”

“Do you give a lot of advice around here?” she queried obviously playing along, knowing damned well this was a game.

“When I can. It’s a talent.” He smiled down on her.

“A gift?”

“Absolutely. And a curse, of course.”

She couldn’t help laughing along with his charm.

“Templeton.”

“I’m sorry. Templeton?” she asked a bit confused.

“My name. It’s Templeton. You of course can call me Tem.”

She was still smiling. Squeaky clean and warm. “It’s nice to meet you Tem,” she said formally, extending a hand. “Leslie.”

“Really? That’s my favorite name!” he enthused wondering where this Casanova was coming from.

“Imagine that.” Not only wasn’t she buying it, she was calling him on it.

He was loving every minute of it.

An hour later they were sitting with herbal tea at Peet’s Coffee when she asked, “So what _is_ your favorite name? And don’t even try Leslie.”

He was laughing. They both were laughing. They had started when he met her outside the bookstore when his shift was over and hadn’t stopped. She was a freshman. A young freshman of only seventeen. Instead of being in any way intimidated by the young man her own age but a year ahead, she said it was nice to meet someone so soon who could show her the lay of the land. Tem had never known another person whom he found so very easy to be with, who synced in with him so effortlessly. “I’m going to go with Gertrude, or maybe Hermione.”

Leslie guffawed and much to her embarrassment snorted.

“You laugh, but you see, I’m actually particularly fond of both”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. Who could not be in love with the works of Gertrude Stein? Take for instance, ‘I know what Germans are. They are a funny people. They are always choosing someone to lead them in a direction which they do not want to go.’ Considering the situation in Vietnam, with the change of a word here or there, I find her as relevant today as ever.”

“And Hermione?”

“Why Hermione Gingold of course. Star of stage and screen.”

“Are you serious?”

He was still smiling. Turning his head slightly to the side, he looked at her from the corner of his eye. “What do you think?”

“I think you are someone I’d like to spend more time with.”

“I think that’s something that can be arranged.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Who is that?”

“I’m sorry, sir. Who do you mean?” Sgt. Jackson scanned the line of soldiers laying on their stomachs taking careful aim down range.

Well maybe not all of them were taking care.

“Third from the end.”

Jackson flipped through the papers on his clipboard. “Second Lieutenant Templeton Peck, sir.”

“He always shoot like that?”

“Like what, sir?”

The young Lieutenant was reloading, looking relaxed, lying half on his back as he calmly yet efficiently expelled the used magazine and pulled back the bolt. A flick of the rifle to the side then snapping it upright again was textbook. The Colonel had seen many an experienced and just as many inexperienced soldiers check for a remaining round or jammed round in the chamber. This kid behaved like an old pro.

A new magazine was inserted and double checked to ensure it had been driven home. The safety was released and the kid rolled on his front. Though he hadn’t timed it the senior officer was confident the entire procedure was completed in not more than five seconds. Nice work for what was supposed to be a rookie.

The two observers walked the backline, the Sergeant overlooking each man, the Colonel intent on only one. Standing behind the Lieutenant it was obvious the firing instructions they had all received weren’t being followed.

“That’s not how he was instructed,” Jackson said, obviously exasperated. He took a step forward to call to the soldier, but was stopped in his tracks.

“Leave him. I want to see this.”

They watched as the soldier varied his position, the position of the weapon, and seamlessly switched modes from semi to automatic fire. While the men to his left and right may as well have been firing muskets for the amount of time it took them to sight, fire then sight again the Lieutenant landed numerous precision shots effortlessly.

The Colonel noted how he was in sync with his weapon. The muscle memory was there for him to quickly lineup a site and fire an accurate shot. A barely noticeable switch of modes and he laid a razor sharp line horizontally across his target. The senior officer glanced at other targets only to see haphazard bullet holes here, there, and everywhere on and around the silhouettes printed on cardboard.

Attention returned to the Lieutenant’s target, he noted the only shots landed outside the human outline were those inline with the precise horizontal demarcations produced by automatic fire.

“How many times have the targets been swapped?”

“This is the second set this morning, sir. It’s time for them to be replaced. If you’d wait here I can...”

The Colonel cut him off, “No not necessary. I’d like to speak with the LT.”

“Yes, sir. Peck! Peck!” When the soldier looked over his shoulder the senior officer got his first good look at the young man’s face.

“How young are we recruiting officers these days?”

“He’s older than he looks. I believe, sir, Peck is a ‘90 day wonder.’” Jackson referred to the term used to describe graduates of the Officer Candidate School’s twelve week program. Established in the early 1940s the program is most often used to churn out officers during wartime. Sometimes it seemed during Vietnam they couldn’t supply enough Second Lieutenants to replace those lost in the field. With requirements relaxed to enter the program the result was younger and younger officers shipped out to the jungle.

Peck had been destined to be an infantry soldier, but before ever stepping a foot off the Oakland Army base his quick thinking was discovered and he was sent to Benning in Georgia to be commissioned as an Intelligence Officer via the OCS’s twelve week program. Once again his natural talents guided his commanding officers to veer him toward Special Forces training.

“Come here please” Jackson yelled over the flanking gunfire.

Peck was now before them standing at attention. “At ease Lieutenant,” the Colonel said with little spark. After a baffling exam Face was asked, “How old are you, kid?”

“I’ll be nineteen in a month, sir.”

“Where did you learn to handle a weapon like that?”

Face’s eyes glanced toward Jackson. He was thinking this was a trick question. “Here in the Army, sir?”

“I meant what previous experience have you had. Hunting?”

“None, sir. Never even held a gun until I got here.” He wasn’t sure where this was going and wondered if he had just been given a test.

The Colonel appraised him, looking for a tell but found none. With the exception of looking to the Sergeant before answering, that beautiful visage was as blank as they come. “You’re not firing as ordered. Care to tell me why?”

Face again looked to Jackson but immediately snapped back when, “Eyes over here, Lieutenant,” was barked at him. “I’m looking for your own words.”

Face licked his lips and watched as the Colonel’s eyes dropped momentarily to his mouth. “Well, once I got the hang of it I wanted to see what else I could do. I mean I know this is just practice and these are cheap guns we’re learning on, but I still wanted to...” He stopped short when he saw the Sergeant open his mouth to speak.

The Colonel shot him a look. He wanted to hear what the kid had to say, unfiltered. He knew Jackson was about to spout a correction, about to say there was nothing cheap about the M16. But it was no secret the M16 was a piece of crap that was getting kids like the one standing before him killed in the field on a regular basis. It had a nagging habit of intermittently refusing to expel a casing from its chamber thus blocking the way for the next round. Too many young men were gunned down while trying to free up their own guns.

“What patterns am I looking at on your target?”

Face looked over his shoulder to the black outline down range. “I don’t know what you mean, sir.”

He was turned around and an arm draped across his shoulders. “Why are the bullet holes where I see them?”

Face didn’t answer immediately. Being this close to the other man allowed him to take in the blue eyes of the officer. The man had a presence about him that made it clear there was no doubt he was a someone who took charge and energized. It gave him a different view of what an Army officer could be. When that face turned towards him waiting for an answer he diverted his gaze down range and began giving a detailed account of his self-taught lessons.

He described how earlier in the week he had spent time learning what adjustments needed to be made in his own stance or position of the firearm in order to actually nail the point he was aiming at. From there he sped things up, thinking he wouldn’t always have time to calculate a perfect shot. After a few hundred rounds of that it occurred to him what could be his safest bet. If he set the gun to automatic, fired and used a sweeping motion he may not be as accurate but he would at least slow down an advance. “...But even then a certain amount of accuracy sure wouldn’t hurt. So I...”

“Alright. Alright,” the Colonel chuckled as his hand slid off the young man. “You ever heard of an outfit called IBM?”

Face squinted his eyes, not sure if he was following this, “International Business Machines?”

“That’s the one. They have a company motto. One word. ‘Think.’ Just that.” He reached into his inner jacket pocket in a quest for a cigar and his Zippo. A nip off the end and he was soon puffing it into life. “Sometimes I wonder if there’s anyone out there who does just that. Think. When I run across one I like to make their acquaintance. Your name’s Peck?”

“Yes, sir. Second Lieutenant Templeton Peck.”

“That’s a mouthful.”

“My friends call me Face.”

“Not hard to see why. I’m Colonel Samuel Morrison, but you son, you can call me General. My ceremony is next week.”

“Congratulations, sir. General.... sir,” he stumbled.

“Thank you. But let me tell you a little secret, kid,” he said leaning in. “It’s only my due.”

Face burst out laughing much to Jackson’s disdain and the soon to be General’s amusement. A hand was clapped on Face’s shoulder as Morrison addressed the sergeant. “Get him into training with the XM21.”

“Yes sir.”

Then to Face, “Work hard, kid. I know just the unit that can use you.”

“Sir, yes sir, but I’m scheduled to complete Special Forces Training, sir.”

“And you will. I’ll be in touch with your CO. Tell him we have one very talented marksman on our hands. You’ll finish your stateside work here at Benning, but it’s now going to include specialized marksmanship. First step is to be introduced to the standard DMR XM21. Got that?!” The General was newly invigorated.

Yes sir!” the Lieutenant snapped back to attention while executing a salute all the while wondering what this man would say if he knew Face had come to the Army to die, not be trained as a sniper to kill the guys who wanted to get out of it in one piece.

Morrison left the two men where they stood, retracing his steps along the backline. The Sergeant looked back to Face. “Well pretty boy, looks like you just got a feather in your cap.”

Having only been an official US Army officer for a little over a week, Face hadn’t thrown any weight around, but that last remark stuck in his craw. “I haven’t used my bars once with you out of respect for your specialty and service. But I’ll remind you now. I outrank you Sergeant and I require the same, if not more respect, than I’ve shown you.”

“Yes sir!”


	5. Chapter 5

There he was, in country and on base. Climbing out of a Willies he grabbed his bag and thanked the private behind the wheel. Stopping the first person he saw, he asked where Colonel Blanding could be found.

The soldier who had been wandering by gave him an odd look. “Why you want to see Blanding?”

“I’m supposed to be part of his Bravo Team?”

“And who made that decision?” the young soldier pressed.

Face thought it was strange this random Corporal was asking questions like he was channelling a school hall-monitor who took their job very seriously. He briefly wondered if his transfer papers could substitute for a hall pass before it clicked in that he outranked the Corporal. It was going to take a while to get the hang of this officer thing. “My orders were initiated by General Morrison, Corporal,” he said using the rank as a tool. “Now I’m asking again. Where do I find Colonel Blanding’s Bravo Team.” He kinda felt like an asshole for once again pulling rank. Sometimes it seemed he did on a weekly basis.

The Corporal just barely adjusted his stance upward and said, “Looks like today is your lucky day, sir. Blanding and his men are headed home.”

“Headed home?” Face thought he’d misunderstood.

“You ever heard that song Green Green Grass of Home?”

Confusion glanced across his face for only a moment. “Their dead?!”

“Yes, sir. All of them to the man.”

“Must be mixing them up with another team or they wouldn’t have sent me.” He dropped his duffel to the ground and was just about to pull his orders when Corporal Random Person spoke again.

“Just happened two days ago. Their bird was shot out of the sky. All bodies accounted for.”

Crouching before the duffel, Face looked up at him. “Are you sure we’re talking about the same men?”

“That I am, sir.”

“Shit,” was the only word that came to mind as he stood. Leaving the bag on the ground he looked around the camp then asked, “Which way to General Morrison?”

 

Lt. Colonel Hannibal Smith had just stepped out from the clapboard-clad quonset that housed the General’s office. He lit a cigar and leaned against the structure. The place was quiet on that particular afternoon. Only a few people milled about the base originally built by the French back in the fifties.

He, the General, and a handful of similarly ranked officers had just met and discussed the formation of micro Alpha and Bravo teams. The men had been charged with selecting the best of their best already numbering up to fifteen per A-Team and upwards of forty per B-Team, out of one hundred fifty or so, to be pared down even further to tight teams of seven or less for A-Teams and twenty or less for B-Teams.

It took Hannibal only moments to know which of his men would form his particular team. It was an easy decision. Captain Ray Brenner headed up the list followed by First Lieutenant Keith Lehman and Sergeant Bosco “BA” Baracus. But Hannibal had a plan forming in his head. He wanted a dedicated pilot. One who would be theirs and theirs alone.

Coming out of his thoughts it occurred to him he had been staring at two soldiers across the way. One who had stepped out of a Willies and another who had been passing by. The taller of the two dropped down to dig through the duffel at his feet. Standing once more he lifted the bag over his shoulder. Then spinning in Hannibal’s direction he followed the finger point of the other man.

With the young man having closed half the distance, Hannibal found he had to school his features. There was a grin fighting with him to explode across his face. The closer the young man came the more convinced the Colonel was of it. The approaching soldier was easily the most beautiful man Hannibal had ever laid eyes on.

Eyes down, intent on his written orders, Face only peripherally registered the presence of the other man. _What the hell? This is like some surrealistic nightmare,_ he thought. Two days earlier and he would have been dead. Never mind that was his intention, he couldn’t go there right now. But where he could go was to find General Morrison.

He pulled open the door and looked inside. So deep in his own head, it never occurred to him to ask where inside this quonset he would find the officer. A quick scan produced no signage.

“Help you find something?”

The voice from behind startled him enough to produce a full body jerk.

“You alright there soldier?”

“You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that,” Face complained, closing his mouth just as he saw the eagle insignia and knew he had made one rather large mistake. The best he could do was call the man in front of him, “sir,” drop his bag, throw a salute and hope his first night in camp wouldn’t be spent in a brig.

Hannibal’s chin was pointed up, his eyes appraising. Face dared to steal a glance in the superior officer’s direction. He wasn’t expecting the eyeful he got. The Colonel had dropped his head and was displaying a full set of pearly whites within a smile as welcoming as a cool evening in summer.

“Look here,” was commanded.

The only thing to waver from his at attention stance was the direction of his eyes. It was enough to assess the rest of this man was as handsome as his smile. Blonde hair fading into enough of a brown in the bottom layers to brighten the sun caressed highlights above. Had he not focused, Face would have missed the smattering of grey throughout. His mind skipped inappropriately to his fingers tracing their way through the obvious softness.

“At ease, soldier.”

Face shifted his left foot to the side and hooked his thumbs together behind, generating the sound of crinkled paper loud enough one could be forgiven for thinking of Christmas.

That smile was still there. And what was that in the senior officer’s eyes? Indulgence? Didn’t matter, Face was getting a full view of crystal blues rimmed in a rich cerulean.

In the mean time Hannibal was taking in the beryl blue eyes of this Adonis before him. “Relax,” he noted the bars on the younger man’s shoulder, “Lieutenant.” He couldn’t be bothered keeping up the indifferent ruse, no longer fighting the smile registering his delight in coming across this bit of beauty in the godforsaken jungles of Vietnam. “I’ll ask again. May I help you with something?”

Face stepped out of his at ease bringing his orders in front, holding them out to the Colonel like they were a peace offering instead of typical US Army documents. “I was supposed to report to Colonel Blanding, but I guess Colonel...”

“Yes. We lost him and his men.” This turn had taken the fun out of the encounter. Ed Blanding had been a friend of Hannibal’s. Not just on a work relationship level, but as a true friendship. From Michigan, like Hannibal himself, he had the same Midwestern sensibility as the Colonel. They spoke in terms of their friendship continuing beyond this hellhole as though it was a given.

Upon hearing the report on the loss of Blanding and his men Hannibal could only tighten his lips, look to the floor and give an acknowledging nod in honor of the unfortunate casualties. It was only later in the cloying dampness of the night did he allow the bereavement to bleed from him. With the bottle of scotch he and Ed had opened only days before, Hannibal found a quiet corner along the periphery of the base where he sat on the ground listening to the night songs of the surrounding jungle.

He’d had half a thought to his tears being self-indulgent, but seamlessly brushed it away. He deserved to mourn his loss. Ed deserved to have someone who served with him mourn for him.

The LT standing before him had dodged a bullet alright. “You know there are other officers you can talk to about this. There’s the Adjutant for starters.”

“But the General was the one who wanted me assigned to the Colonel, sir. I met him when he was a Colonel. Just before his promotion.”

Hannibal eyed the kid for a short moment.  _Damn he’s good looking_. Having to shake himself back to the here and now he said, “Okay. Follow along.” Hannibal waited the beats for the Lieutenant to retrieve his duffel before setting off to the General’s office.

 

Face had been a member of Jansen’s B-Team for closing in on four months. Morrison’s plan of putting him with Ed’s group obviously needed a revision. The General had to wonder how things could have turned out. But there was no use in dwelling. Instead he assigned the young officer to Major Phillip Jansen.

The General oversaw two edges of the sword. Jansen and Hannibal we’re both formidable warriors but contrasted drastically in their performance. On the one hand he had Hannibal, a myth among the men in this camp and at large. Smith’s all American, yet boyish good looks belied the tough nut man’s man he was. Known for outrageous strategies and plans he had made quite the name for himself. Whether his plans worked out as they were intended or blew up in everyone’s faces was a bit of a crap shoot; nonetheless, they always either marched or limped home their desired outcome. He was someone known to take chances seemingly with abandon, but Hannibal never once lost a man. At least none the General had ever heard of. On the other hand there was Jansen. Another legend, but not one spoken of with reverential respect or awe as the Colonel with the movie star good looks. No, while Jansen always, without fail accomplished his missions he was known to lose men along the way, what was bordering on far too many along the way.

Jansen’s men were never out of line. There was never, at least that reached the General’s ears, a bad word spoken of him by the men serving under him. That was reserved for those not in his chain. It was the soldiers from other companies who whispered of the shortcuts and unnecessary risks taken. He was called The Lumberjack, referring to the steady supply of pine boxes used to send the remains of his men home in.

Statistically speaking his numbers of casualties weren’t sky high, not when taken as flat numbers. It was when percentages were used that a pattern of disregard for lives began to emerge. Like a bad priest he was shifted from unit to unit, camp to camp. His transgressions not forgiven but buried.

Morrison was still relatively new to his post when he assigned the sharpshooter/Army Ranger/intelligence officer to Jansen’s unit. What he saw on paper was a team that had recently lost both a sniper and intelligence officer. It had also lost its XO weeks before. Peck was a clever kid, Morrison reasoned. He was just the man to fill in the blanks on Jansen’s B-Team.

He explained the roles to the young man when he introduced him to Jansen. Typically a General was the last person to make these introductions, but he felt a certain responsibility for the LT’s situation. It was the least he could do under the circumstances.

Though above average and completely dependable in the other two areas, where Jansen used him most was for his God-given talent to acquire just about anything the Major requested and then some. Besides the US Army commissioned supplies procured originally for Jansen, there were expensive bottles of liquor. Soon the items accumulated were not just for Jansen but also the unit: Playboy magazines, imported German and Italian crafted firearms, pot and hashish, not to mention the pipes to smoke them from, Johnson & Johnson baby powder to accompany the Army issued Gri-PEG, Ivory soap, transistor radios, phonographs and the records to play on them, fresh fruit, Budweiser, and chocolate candies. The items flowed freely throughout Jansen’s unit and beyond.

Face was soon turning a profit. Not much by civilian standards but enough for his private projects with a little left over for himself. Once every two weeks he received a shipment from Los Angeles. The three cases contained hundreds of basic tube socks. They were nothing fancy and often they didn’t match, but they were clean and dry and each pair contained a treat. Rolled inside were three of what he called Gramma’s Cookies. Besides letters from home, Gramma’s Cookies were one of the more treasured items to reach the throngs of manchildren fighting this losing battle.

For as many soldiers who mobbed the curriers of mailbags waiting for their name to be called to receive a letter from the States, there were other lonely young men who did without. For them Face arranged, for those who wanted it and free of charge, a pen pal with whom to converse.

What Face kept to himself was the arrangement he had with Father Maghill and the nuns back at the orphanage. He supplemented any shortfall of funds from collections needed to purchase ingredients for the cookies and of the inexpensive socks. The sisters happily produced batch after batch of cookies to be stuffed in the socks.

They balked at the idea of the socks when Face first broached the idea. He soon convinced them what a simple delight it was for a soldier to have clean dry feet in the often swamp-like conditions of Vietnam. Also, though they didn’t always let on what their vocation was, it was primarily the sisters who became pen pals with the kids fighting a war pushed forward by old men.

With as many irons he had going in the fire it was a wonder he had time for soldiering. Yet off into the jungle he would travel with his unit. Most often in the roll of company sniper. A guardian angel as Corporal Rex Hilbourne had put it the week before he stepped on his first and last landmine. A month later Face trudged with his unit to meet up with an A-Team as part of a joint mission.

Hannibal of course had heard of the Santa Claus efforts of the handsome young officer appropriately called Face. He had kept tabs on the kid from a distance. Only to himself, and alone in the middle of the night at that, would he admit the pathetic crush he had on the LT. Hannibal had no personal contact with the young man, but that didn’t stop the fantasies from forming behind closed eyes.

Interestingly Hannibal was too caught up in the planning and logistics of the joint mission to put it together Lt. Peck was a part of Jansen’s unit. He was somewhat distracted by his uneasiness over being paired with the Major. As a result he did something he never had the occasion for prior. He warned his men not to trust orders issued by the man. They were to use their best judgement should the situation arise.

Hannibal and his micro team set out as dawn was breaking the morning of the mission. The plan had been to repel down to the high grass of the drop off site and trek to the village meeting point. Before their boots hit the ground they had their first glimpse things weren’t going to go off smoothly.

With seemingly 360 degree vision the pilot caught a flash of light off his starboard side. He took the guess this was first off a weapon. Secondly, he took a chance this was a weapon that could bring down a man, but not a bird. Just past the halfway point of the repel the chopper carefully lowered the men closer to the ground. Not only shortening the time they were easy targets in the air, begging to be shot out of the sky, he also set the bird down between the flash and the men.

Hannibal immediately understood the change in plans. He trusted this seemingly out of touch pilot beyond any of the others who had been in similar situations. Perhaps not exactly the same but cases where the pilot’s actions were made singularly for himself, not the team. Though not the rule, it happened far too often in Hannibal’s estimation.

Alone in his quarters he often reran missions through his head well into the night. More than once he wished the damned service, be it Air Force or Army would lift the ban on female combat pilots. Though a product of his upbringing, one that considered women something to be coddled and protected, he was pragmatic. Women nurtured. They were geared to caring for those around them. It was exactly that feature that would make them the perfect Huey pilot. Hell, he had witnessed the courage and determination of female nurses and foreign correspondents. But with the decided lack of female pilots in the conflict Hannibal considered himself lucky to have the slightly off balanced H.M. Murdock at his disposal.

Case in point was his instinctual focus over any area he flew into. Another pilot may not have even put the random bits of information together, much less made the split second decision to break with orders by lowering the men to the ground quickly, not to mention the skill it took to shift the flying beast enough to the right so as not to land on anyone.

He waited only long enough for Hannibal and his ground team to make it halfway to cover. Any longer and he risked not being the pilot to retrieve them, or anyone else for that matter ever again. With the team at a safe enough distance he lifted the bird not more than ten feet off the ground before he began spinning and bucking it in a convincing display of engine failure.

He had his sights firmly on the stand of trees from where the metallic flashes had glistened in the foliage. After a deathbed act for the ages he pointed that nose straight in the direction of the supposed enemy. Any doubts as to intent were erased with the first shot fired in his direction.

Spinning the Iroquois first starboard to give the VC a dose of fire, he then followed up with a quick twirl to the port side for another round. Starboard aimed for confusion while port protected Murdock’s airborne lady’s flank. As Hannibal had the utmost faith in him, he had the same trust in JJ. Having condensed two men into one, he dubbed his two door gunners, Jed and Jackson, with the singular call-name.

Hannibal heard the commotion behind, but kept going, slamming into his Lieutenant’s back forcing him forward to the cover of the tree line. Keith would have laid himself down and opened fire to cover for Murdock’s retreat. Hannibal had faith in the pilot otherwise he wouldn’t have kept him. No he needed Keith to stay on point and if shoving him into the darkened cover of forest was the the most efficient means to do that, so be it.

Inside the cover of foliage each man picked a tree to put between themselves and whoever that was firing from the other side of the clearing. Hannibal smiled across to his men as the sound of the chopper put distance between itself and the LZ. He noted the barrage of gunfire from the bird’s M-60s had cut off while still in the clearing, shortly after the corresponding ground fire had died. Whoever was back there wouldn’t be bothering them.

Without words, only using a single finger flipped in the direction from where they had come, he signaled to the team to move out. Still on high alert they crossed the LZ to head off to the rendezvous site with Jansen’s men. Within their first fifteen steps beyond the clearing to the opposite side they passed the remains of four VC. Pushing aside the bullet hole riddled leaves each of the Americans took possession of the Soviet-supplied AK47s still clutched by their demised former owners.

They made quick work of finding their way through the dense vegetation. Ray’s hand went up with a wave forward indicating they were almost to the village. Only a few paces further they heard the voices, loud and angry. Leaving Keith in the rear, Hannibal ducked around BA and Ray to take the lead at a brisk trot.

Breaking through to the clearing containing the village, they were just in time to see the handsome young LT fire off a shot aimed ahead of Major Jansen’s feet. A stunned silence hung like a fog around the twenty or so men present. Hannibal didn’t want to acknowledge what he thought he was witnessing.

The village had been empty when Hoffman’s A-Team had swept it. The mission now was to destroy the abandoned hamlet and sweep the remains for entrances to the vast VC tunnel system. But standing, barely, before them was a bundle of three elderly Vietnamese woman. Frail and reed-thin, they clutched at each other with an apparent understanding if one went down the rest would follow.

They were flanked by five soldiers, three to the left, two to the right. Another baker’s dozen were scattered about the area. Major Jansen had a direct line to the women, his arm extended in their direction, the fire arm he held pointed off center and to the ground. Murderous anger seared into his expression as his glare bore into Lieutenant Peck standing ten yards away with an M16 slung over a shoulder and an XM21 in hand aimed directly at Jansen.

Hannibal had extended his hands out to his sides signaling his men to stay put. The contrast couldn’t have been more stark. Jansen was vibrating, his nerves holding on by a thread. It was obvious, given the chance, he would put a bullet in Peck with pleasure.

Peck was calm. His entire demeanor relaxed. He stood with his weight to one foot, the knee of the other leg kicked out to the side. The firearm was held chest height, but without a white knuckle grip. His finger on the trigger didn’t twitch.

“What’s going on here Lieutenant?” Hannibal asked, fully aware of the dangerous situation he and his men had come upon.

“That son-of-bitch tried to kill me!” Jansen squeaked out in a falsetto.

“I wasn’t talking to you!” Hannibal barked at the Major. He stepped toward the LT whose eyes never once wavered from his CO.

“I wouldn’t get too close. Wouldn’t want you to be an unintentional casualty. The kid’s crazy,” the man who didn’t know when to shut up advised the Colonel.

“Men!”

“Yes, sir!” Brenner, Baracus and Lehman responded loud and in unison.

“If the Major makes a move or speaks again...shoot him.”

“Yes, sir!” The clapping of rifles into firing position was unmistakable.

Hannibal strolled up to Peck, casual, ambling. “My men have things under control. You can shoulder your weapon.” The Colonel’s voice was soft and low. This was a conversation between the two of them.

“He was going to shoot them,” Face explained his eyes still not wavering.

“Shoot who?”

“The women.”

“That a fact?”

“You don’t believe me?”

“Didn’t say that. But honestly I have a little problem here. My team and I walked in on you firing your weapon in the direction of your CO. Lacking any other perspective on the situation I’m looking at an executable offense.” Hannibal stepped right up to the kid and directed his voice to Face’s ear. “I need you to trust me, Kid. I need you to trust my team. I need you to fully understand we’ve got things firmly in hand.”

Face’s eyes flinched away from Jansen to Hannibal’s icy blues then back to Jansen.

“Lower your weapon and we can have a little discussion.”

Face looked to the Colonel once more before lowering the rifle and offering it to Hannibal.

“I don’t want it. Shoulder it.”

“Yes, sir,” Face said his head down as his cool began to fail him. Hannibal was impressed with the kid’s controlled moxie up until then.

“Tell me what happened here. I thought this village was abandoned.”

“We did too. Our orders were to torch it.”

“Yes. I know that. Where did these women come from?”

Face lifted his head and pointed with his chin to one of the structures. “They were in there. They were huddled in a corner with two buckets of water and some moldy rice. They’re so ... skinny. They look like they’re starving. They’re so old.” His eyes were welling.

Hannibal glanced at the villagers. Peck’s description was an understatement. The women were emaciated and ancient.

“Major Jansen ordered they be lined up by that well and wanted them shot. He said they’re almost dead anyway.” The tears breached. He sniffed once but didn’t wipe at his eyes under the mistaken impression if he didn’t call attention to them the Colonel wouldn’t notice.

Hannibal remained silent, giving the young officer the time he needed. If asked he would have to admit he was having a hard time schooling his own expression from the rage building inside him.

“No one would do it. The Major was getting madder and madder and said he would do it himself. Show us what real men were. When I saw him pull his sidearm the only thing I could think of to stop him was to fire a warning round. That’s when you showed up.”

Hannibal patted the kid on the shoulder. “Thank you Lieutenant.” He took several steps away then said loudly enough to be heard by more than just Face, “I want you to go over to that Lieutenant of mine. Turn your weapons over to him.” He shouted across the distance, “Ray! I want you to relieve this LT of his arms.”

“Yes, sir!” Ray responded.

“Go ahead, Lieutenant,” the Colonel urged.

“Yes, sir,” Peck said in a shuddering breath and moved off toward Ray.

Hannibal took in the scene before him. Though it had dropped down dramatically from when they had first arrived, Jansen’s sidearm was still in hand pointed to the ground in the general direction of the women. Taking long strides he covered the ground to the Major. Again in a low, private conversational voice he spoke to the man. “Holster your weapon, dirtbag, before I walk out of here and let this fragging* come to its rightful conclusion.”

Jansen’s contempt was now focused on the Colonel, but what could he do, but follow the order?

Hannibal performed the self pat down he was famous for in search of a cigar. Retrieving one from a pocket he had it lit in no time. “Alright Jansen, this is what we’re going to do. We’re going to offer the ladies some water. My men will watch over them while yours complete their mission as ordered. When this hovel is dust, your men can sort through the ash and document your findings.”

“Those weren’t the orders,” Jansen spat angrily. “It’s up to your men...”

“Sometimes the plan doesn’t come together. Take today for instance. My men have yet another new priority. They will be escorting the ladies back to our LZ immediately, and I’ll call in for an early extraction.”

Jansen opened his mouth but was cutoff before uttering a word. “There’s no way in hell I’m leaving those women in your care. And another thing. Judging by a visual exam my guess is they will most likely need to be carried most of the way. Our team has four men. Three to carry, one to take point. We need another soldier to bring up the rear. So I’ll be taking one of yours.” He took in the men scattered about ending with his own. “We’ll just take the Lieutenant.”

“You’re not taking my LT! He will be returned by me personally to face charges!”

“Are you feeling a little overheated there, Phil? Could I get you an ice pack? Maybe a fan? You don’t seem to be thinking clearly.” Smith was back to leaning in. “Never mind whether you trust all these men to back you as to what occurred just now and what you stated you had planned. Do you honestly think there’s even one soldier who respects you enough not to add a nail to the coffin of your military career?” He didn’t bother waiting for a reply. Instead he turned to his team. “Gentleman. We’ll be escorting the ladies out of the area. Come and pick one.”

His three team members came forward leaving a bewildered Face alone where he stood. BA and Keith offered an arm to two of the ladies as though they were requesting a dance. Ray was fumbling with the additional weapons he had been tasked with.

“Lieutenant Peck! Get over here. Take your weapons back.”

With the weapons sorted it became apparent the ladies either didn’t understand the arm invitation gesture or were simply too frightened to willingly accompany the men. Hannibal tried getting the idea across and was this close to slipping into an interpretive dance when someone spoke behind him.

“S'il vous plaît mesdames. Est-ce que quelqu'un parle français?”

Hannibal looked over his shoulder to see the young LT step forward as the women conversed among themselves. From years of French colonization, he knew it wasn’t unusual to come across Vietnamese who spoke the language.

Finally after looking the soldier up and down one of them replied, “Oui. Je parle français.”

“Bien! Nous vous accompagnerons d'ici. Pouvez-vous tous marcher?”

They again conferred before answering, “Pas très bien.”

“Okay... Okay. Ce n'est pas un problème. Nous pouvons vous porter si vous voulez.”

At the suggestion of being carried the three dissolved into giggles like a handful of school girls. Their ad hoc spokesman eventually saying simply, “OK.”

He was smiling at them, enjoying this touch of humanity in the middle of Hell on Earth as if it were a gift bestowed. He turned, still smiling to Hannibal only to find the Colonel smiling at him. Though a bit flustered he managed, “They can’t walk very well, but they won’t object to being carried.”

“You’re fluent in French.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well that’ll come in handy.”

“Already has, sir,” he said tipping his head toward the ladies.

Hannibal laughed at the smug reply. “Ladies? Gentlemen? Let’s all have a bit of water then move out.”

 

The following evening Hannibal and Ray walked through the camp speaking in hushed tones. It was a regular sight. The two men often conferred before or after a mission, planning or evaluating a job done.

Smith’s eye was drawn to a figure walking alongside one of the supply tents. He wasn’t sure of it, but he suspected it was the young Lieutenant. Excusing himself from Ray he followed the path the soldier had taken.

Around the back of the structure he found the kid crouched down along the back wall. Hands through short hair holding his head on either side, his guard was down. When Hannibal spoke he startled enough to lose balance, tipping to the side. While scrambling to get to his feet Hannibal extended a hand speaking again to capture the kid’s attention.

“Here. Take my hand.”

“Thank you, sir.” He was on his feet and straightening to go to attention.

“Relax, Kid.”

Not knowing how to respond he repeated, “Thank you, sir.”

“That’s enough of that. Call me Hannibal.”

“Okay... Hannibal.”

“You’re suppose to say I can call you Face.”

“Yes, sir.”

He was unaware of the gesture he was making until his hand was on the kid’s shoulder. “You alright there?”

“Uh... I... I’m fine.”

“They turning you officers out so fast these days they forget to tell you not to lie to a superior?”

That did it. Hannibal could feel the young man relax under his hand. To the Colonel the smile he received wasn’t megawatt but rather a bit shy. “No. They didn’t forget to tell me.”

“Why you out here on your own? Have anything to do with what happened yesterday?”

Face huffed a laugh. “What do you think?”

“Anything I can help with?”

“I doubt it.”

“You maybe surprised. I’ve got a lot of clout around here.” Hannibal smiled a smug smile around his cigar. Face thought it was something he could get used to seeing regularly.

“I don’t know...”

“Has that sleaze ball Jansen done something?”

“Besides sending me out with the tunnel rats tomorrow?”

“What?! Is he out of his mind?”

“Yeah. I think he is.”

Hannibal just looked at the young man, registering what he said. He was hit with a feeling of remorse. His mind quickly jumped to earning redemption.

Morrison had been away from the camp for 24 hours. Had left while the teams were in the jungle and not come back until the next afternoon, the same afternoon now ebbing into evening. He hadn’t wanted to hit him with the sledgehammer he had planned until the following morning, reporting what had transpired. This changed things. He was of half a mind to stalk off then and there, leaving the LT where he stood.

The kid must have registered the anger growing on Hannibal’s face. “I didn’t mean to complain,” he sputtered out.

Hannibal brought himself down. “I know.” He puffed at his cigar as they stood silently.

Face was looking uncomfortable with the silence. Smith could almost see the kid’s nerves begin to once more amp up. Face searched ahead of himself, out toward the garage standing between them and the fence line.

“Understand you’re quite the XO,” Hannibal noted.

Face’s head snapped so fast the Colonel was concerned there maybe neck damage.

“I.. I... I mean... What I mean to say...” Face stammered before being cut off by the senior officer.

“I’ve heard a lot about Gramma’s Cookies.”

Face could only look at him. Pushing aside the Colonel’s good looks he waited for the dressing down.

“My men have heard about them too.”

Face licked his lips to no avail. His mouth had gone dry.

Hannibal took a drag from his cigar. It was all he could do to remain cool. That dart of the tongue was all kinds of distracting. His gaze turned to the garage while he pictured in his mind’s eye Fred MacMurray naked. The image abruptly shut off the faucet responsible for sending blood throughout his groin.

“So how do me and my men get on the list?”

Face couldn’t contain the laughter the question drew. “Well that depends on how badly you want on,” the kid said with a smirk.

Hannibal saw a shadow of the smart ass the kid would grow into. He decided then and there he liked the young man. No point in only fantasizing about it anymore. There were going to be some changes made.

 

Smith strode across the compound the next morning with his cigar tight in his teeth. A Moses of sorts, people quickly identified the man and moved aside, parting an open path before him. In another time or another war, perhaps North Africa or the Middle East, out Afghanistan or Iraq way, he would leave a plume of dust for a wake. But not here. Vietnam was not known for having an arid climate.

Instead he slogged through the mud hole they called their home away from home, cursing the overnight rain that stopped in time to become steam in the morning light. It came as a surprise to most brought to participate in this godforsaken war exactly how wet Hell turned out to be. There had been a collective sigh of relief as the monsoon season ebbed into a delightfully muggy rainy season. Who knew there were that many varieties of fungus capable of thriving on damp human skin?

Hannibal’s attention was drawn to the familiar congregation of an infantry preparing to move out. Loading into a deuce and a half that transported them to the airfield and a chopper waiting to deposit them in a closely held location. From there they would travel on foot to their final destination, often nothing more than a well camouflaged hole in the ground.

Known as “tunnel rats” the men specialized in clearing the labyrinth of underground passages used by the Viet Cong. Typically discovered by ground patrols, a battalion would be called in, or under other circumstances the locations were documented with the specialists sent later.

Tunnel rat squads were made up of primarily volunteers. Typically short of stature, the battalions were often easily distinguished not only by their height, but also by their arms. Standard issue rifles were scarce among their ranks. Aside from difficulties in the ungainly size, the sound and flash of the long barrels, deafening and blinding within the low tight confines of the tunnels encouraged the men to prefer small caliber handguns.

Looking up at the two rows of men seated facing each other it wasn’t hard to pick out Peck. Though not exceptionally tall, being just shy of six foot saw him literally a head above the rest of the unit who topped out at five-six. “Lieutenant! Just where the hell do you think you’re going?”

Face fumbled the pack he carried. Looking to Smith he pointed to himself and mouthed, “Me?”

“Yes you!”

Face stumbled over words when uttered aloud didn’t really mean much of anything. He could have kicked himself for not keeping his cool while challenged by the superior officer.

“I thought I made myself 100% clear. You were to report to me. Get your ass down here. NOW!”

Face was certain the Colonel hadn’t told him that the night before and was coming to the conclusion this may all be for show. Until proven otherwise he played along and hustled off the truck.

“What the hell is this?!” Jansen had come to give a personal send off to the LT.

“That’s what I’d like know. This man is an off-i-cer,” Hannibal enunciated. “Why was an officer on transport with tunnel rats?”

“Discipline,” Decker announced standing straighter, hands going to his hips.

“Discipline is designed to be a learning experience. Explain to me what an officer can learn from a tunnel rat mission.”

“That he needs to follow orders or be transferred to a shit post,” Jensen said with more than a touch of defiance.

“To my tent,” Hannibal growled around his cigar as he spun to lead the way.

“What is it with you, Jansen? I’d swear you’re reading out of Major Decker’s handbook.” The Colonel stood beside his desk, his arms crossed. Face read him clearly. He had asked the question, but didn’t really give a shit what the answer might be.

“I take that as a compliment. Major Decker runs a tight ship.” Pride hung heavily about the man.

“Decker is a dispassionate murderer unfit to wear the uniform of a U.S. soldier. He’s a scuzball.” Hannibal gave it to the count of two before continuing. “This man is nearly six foot. Tell me how effective he would be in the tunnels, not being able to stand up straight.”

Jansen glared. Hannibal wanted nothing more than to see to the degradation of the man; unfortunately, that was beyond his pay grade. A court marshal would be the body to take care of it. So Hannibal did the next best thing. “He’s mine now.”

“What are you trying pull here? You can’t just take him. I won’t allow it.”

“I need someone to fill the hole that will be left when Lieutenant Lehman goes back home. I put in a request for a new XO. Told Morrison it would work best if they overlapped by a couple of weeks.” He picked up Second Lieutenant Templeton Peck’s order of reassignment from his desk and held it out to the Major. “It seems the General agreed.”

Jansen snatched at the sheets of paper date and time stamped the night before. Smacking them on Smith’s chest he spat out, “What do you want with this kid? I’m ready to escort him to the door. Uses his own brain a little too often. Can’t manage to keep with the program.”

Face was battling to keep the tension in his jaw under control as he stood at attention, avoiding looking at either man.

“And from what I‘ve seen he’s done so with exceptional results.” Hannibal didn’t bother keeping the smugness out of his voice or the shit-eating grin off his face as he set the papers back on his desk.

Jansen dropped his head. Looking from under his brow he all but growled, “You got it wrong.” Standing straight glancing at Peck his upper lip curled in disgust, as though the kid’s presence had turned the air fetid.

Hannibal glanced at the young soldier and witnessed his internal battle etched on his face. This was one of those things he could never wrap his head around. How Jansen and so many others were blind to what the men in their command needed. No, this wasn’t a life of unicorns and rainbows, but it also wasn’t a dispassionate goddamn Audie Murphy movie either.

He had seen enough of the likes of Jansen. Men who were too busy shouting orders to assess the talent that was right under their nose. Men who had more regard for the expensive Army equipment than the men operating it.

Jansen was talking again, his words dripping with venom. “He’s nothing but a pretty boy used to having his way.”

“Well he’s _my_ pretty boy now,” Hannibal ground out past his cigar.

It took Face only a few seconds to school his smirk away. Jansen may have missed it but the Colonel didn’t. With all of his blustering Jansen also missed the wink Hannibal threw Face’s way.

“This isn’t the end of this, Smith,” Jansen barked.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that, Phil.” He cast his eyes beyond the Major to the doorway. “I see the MPs are here to accompany you to Morrison’s office.”

 

The moment they were alone Hannibal turned to the young officer, “Relax, Kid. You’re starting a new chapter.”

“So...what? You think I’m a pretty boy?” Face ventured.

“Oh yeah. Got a problem with that, soldier?”

“No sir,” he said with a smile Hannibal decided he was going to enjoy seeing more of.

At the same time it ran through the young man’s head that maybe it wasn’t so bad being a pretty boy after all.

An arm went around Face’s shoulders. Hannibal pulled the cigar from his mouth and said, “Face, my boy. I think this is the start of something big. I can feel it.”

No, Face thought, he wouldn’t mind this one bit.

 

 

 

**~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~¥¥¥¥~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~**

 

 

**-If you’ve gotten this far, I thank you for following along to the end.-**

**Let me know if you enjoyed the story with a kudos &/or a comment.**

 

 

 

**From H/F group pomptfest**

**Jullian Gray suggested:** Five times Face got upset about being called "Pretty Boy" and the one time he didn't mind one bit.

 

*Fragging - The act of an American soldier killing a senior officer. Term was derived from incidences of a fragmentation grenade rolled into the area where an officer or NCO was sleeping.

 

 


End file.
